


Main Squeeze

by robocryptid



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: 5+1 Things, All The Tropes, Awkward Sexual Situations, Bad Taste, Handcuffed Together, Huddling For Warmth, Humor, Inappropriate Erections, M/M, Making Out, Non-Penetrative Sex, Sexual Content, Sexual Humor, Sexual Tension, Trapped In A Closet, Trapped In Elevator, assholes in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:35:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27233596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robocryptid/pseuds/robocryptid
Summary: Jesse has a shaky relationship with the concept of a higher power, but he’s pretty sure the universe is fucking with him. There’s no other way to explain why this keeps happening.Or: five times Jesse and Hanzo get stuck in close quarters against their will, and one time they don’t.
Relationships: Jesse McCree/Hanzo Shimada
Comments: 79
Kudos: 701





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Over on Twitter, I observed the dearth of "handcuffed together" trope for McHanzo. [YourAverageJoke](https://twitter.com/youraveragejoke) also mentioned how few "stuck in a closet" fics there are. Then I got sick, mashed these together, and wrote something very silly and indulgent.

### 1

Winston assigns the task groups at random. It’s meant to be some team-building, get-to-know-you bullshit. Jesse suspects he picked up the idea from a book that also uses words like “synergy” and “piggyback” every other page. Got to get the ball rolling on these Watchpoint repairs. With some blue-sky thinking they can find some real out-of-the-box solutions to utilize when they circle back to dealing with Talon.

He’s probably being too cynical about it. Winston’s doing the best he can and learning on the job, just like the rest of them. The Watchpoint isn’t fit to run without a communal effort. There are a thousand things to scrub, faulty wiring to fix, bizarre protocols to undo in Athena’s programming. 

Mostly, Jesse’s annoyed because he doesn’t feel like organizing inventory today, and he especially doesn’t feel like doing it with Hanzo. On the list of people Jesse would willingly spend time with, Hanzo ranks somewhere only slightly above police, most politicians, and their actual enemies.

Not that Jesse hates him or anything, but he’s not remarkably interested in getting to know him either. He has enough friends already, thanks. He doesn’t feel any desire to buddy up to the guy who tried to kill one of them. 

Hanzo is standing in the hall when Jesse arrives, five minutes before their scheduled shift. He’s also glaring at the door like it has personally offended him. 

“Ready to get this outta the way?” Jesse asks in lieu of a proper greeting. 

If Hanzo’s bothered by it, he doesn’t show it. He only shrugs. “Yes.” He _does_ tense when Jesse pushes past him to punch in the code to open the door, but that might have everything to do with Jesse getting too far inside his personal bubble. 

The door slides open to reveal a small storage closet. Shelves line all three of its walls, loaded top to bottom with aging cardboard boxes. A peek into one labeled “personnel” reveals an old sweater sitting on top of time-worn file folders and a box of crayons. “Don’t think we can just count the boxes and be done with it.”

“I did not expect that to be the case. Did you?”

“Might’ve gotten my hopes up that we could do this quick and easy.”

Hanzo grunts his acknowledgment while Jesse steels himself and heads deeper into the closet. It’s not a big space, but he can stand comfortably enough while he works. 

“If you move back, I can do this shelf,” Hanzo suggests. It requires squeezing two people into an area that’s already making him feel claustrophobic, but if it means getting the job done faster, he’ll take it.

Jesse turns to look at him, squinting at the closet thoughtfully. It _should_ have room for two, if they’re careful. “Alright. Just… watch your elbows.”

He realizes the mistake as soon as Hanzo tries to get in. It is definitely too cramped for two people, the walls closing in as Hanzo closes the distance between them. Naturally this is when the door slides shut.

“No way,” Jesse says, reaching past Hanzo to feel at the edges of the door. It won’t budge. The keypad to the side is dark, and it certainly doesn’t respond to Jesse’s furious punching of codes half-remembered from a million years ago. “Why the hell would you close it?”

“I didn’t,” Hanzo says, drawing away from Jesse’s arm. He doesn’t have much space to maneuver. 

“Oh, so it just closed on its own?”

 _“Yes,”_ Hanzo snaps. “Why would I want this?” He tries to gesture, and his arm knocks against Jesse’s. That makes his point well enough. 

They both try knocking at the door and shouting for Athena a few times, but to no avail. They settle into an irritated silence as they surrender to reality. They’re stuck. Jesse’s comm is on the other side of that door. So is his access to anything that might get someone else’s attention. 

Jesse’s a patient man. He can handle this. Someone will realize they’re missing soon enough. Someone will come looking. One of them will come up with a solution. He’s not going to starve, he’s not going to die of dehydration. The worst that could happen is one of them gets gassy while they’re stuck in close quarters. 

The reassurances have the opposite of their intended effect. He imagines that someday, years from now, they’ll find two skeletons tangled together in this stupid closet, and they’ll come up with some story about how they were lovers caught in an embrace, and not just coworkers who sometimes sort of tolerate one another. 

Well. For certain values of _tolerate._

Hanzo _is_ nice to look at. Sometimes. Not right now, of course. Staring straight ahead like he is, Jesse can only see his forehead right now, and his hair, but he tries not to look too closely because it would be weird to stare at a man’s forehead for too long.

But he’s not bad to look at in general. He’s arrogant and kind of a dick, but he can be funny, usually when he’s not trying, and he’s easy on the eyes. Jesse’s always liked black hair, nice dark eyes, and what he’d like to call a “strong personality” but what usually translates to “somebody who’d just as soon kill him as kiss him, because he has never had a strong sense of self-preservation.” He’s not so particular about body type, but it’s hard _not_ to notice Hanzo’s. 

He doesn’t need to linger too long on that, not right now, not when he can smell the faint whiff of Hanzo’s shampoo. Not when Hanzo’s body — the one he is definitely not thinking about — is pressed against him, dense muscle unyielding and all of it just within reach. He radiates an inviting warmth, too. 

Jesse feels the pressure between his legs before he can stop that train of thought. He tries thinking about the inventory they’re supposed to be doing, going over mission prep in his mind, anything at all, but every effort not to think about his dick reminds him of his dick, which responds to every non-thought about it by filling out a little more. 

He has a shaky relationship with the concept of a higher power, but in this moment, he resorts to a silent prayer, even as the demands of his cock begin to gain some urgency. If there _is_ some higher power, they sure as shit aren’t listening. 

He can pinpoint the exact moment Hanzo notices. There’s the obvious: Jesse can feel it press against him in the cramped space, so there’s no way Hanzo doesn’t feel it too. There’s also the resulting stiffness — and not like his own, but like Hanzo has just spotted an enemy and has gone stock still in preparation to strike him down. 

There is a moment of tense silence. Hanzo does not move, and when Jesse risks a glance down, he can see that Hanzo’s eyes are open, gazing straight ahead. Technically he’s staring at the collar of Jesse’s shirt, but Jesse suspects he’s not actually _seeing_ anything. 

Maybe they can get away with not talking about it. Maybe he can simply will the erection away, and Hanzo can play along, and they can both forget about this. It’s throbbing now, hot between his legs. It feels good where it’s pressed against his clothing, straining against Hanzo’s tight abs, which Jesse has taken notice of more times than he would like to admit. It makes it easy to imagine what it’d be like without the barrier of clothing between them. Jesse grits his teeth and has to suppress the sudden urge to rub against him. 

Eventually he concedes victory to his idiot boner, and he figures it’s better to address this head on than stay silent. “So. About this.” Hanzo startles, but he says nothing. “Sorry. I’m— it’s been a while? Nothin’ personal to feel weird about. Not that you’re not attractive, just, y’know, circumstances being what they are, it’s— Sorry.”

Hanzo hasn’t moved. He’s still staring straight ahead. Jesse wonders if he heard a word. He shifts his weight and bites down on the urge to apologize again. 

He’s sweating bullets by the time Hanzo acknowledges the situation. “I could help,” he offers, and Jesse nearly chokes on his own spit. His erection perks up more at a sudden, powerful image of Hanzo on his knees. 

He tamps down on his imagination, because there’s almost no chance Hanzo means it that way. “How’s that?” he asks. The humiliation makes it hard to sound confident or particularly seductive. He sounds desperate instead. 

“I could threaten you.” Jesse’s dick twitches. There’s a puff of air on his neck that he doesn’t want to believe is Hanzo laughing at him — but it’s probably Hanzo laughing at him. “Would it be better if I turn away?” 

Jesse bites back a groan. “Probably not gonna help, no.” 

Hanzo makes a thoughtful, surprised sound. “I can recite the ingredients to Mei’s cookie recipe?”

Jesse’s dick twitches again. “Oh, come the fuck on.”

Hanzo falls silent, but his shoulders tremble. He’s laughing. He has to be. Jesse would be, if their positions were reversed. Although Jesse might also be kind enough to offer to help in more substantial ways. What’s a quick handjob between colleagues? Now that he’s thinking about it, he’d probably blow him if requested. Whatever his hang-ups about Hanzo, Jesse’s body seems to like him alright. 

Hanzo is very obviously not going to ask though. If he were, now would be a prime opportunity. His lack of interest is resounding. 

“Did I mention I’m sorry?” Jesse asks. Whines, possibly, because neither the erection nor his humiliation have let up. 

“You did, yes.” There’s a funny hitch to his voice.

“Are you seriously laughin’ at me?” 

“I wouldn’t dare,” Hanzo says solemnly. Jesse finally looks down, which is a mistake, because Hanzo is looking _up,_ and the sudden closeness of their faces is sort of misleading, as far as Jesse’s dick is concerned. Hanzo’s lips have this curve to them, probably just the aftermath of his suppressed laughter, but it’s distracting as hell. His mouth is already nice, with that perfect Cupid’s bow on top and the hint of a pout on bottom, and it’s significantly more appealing now that it’s absent his usual frown, lips parting for a quick breath. 

A hand creeps along Jesse’s side, fingertips ticklish as they curl into the fabric of his shirt. It’s probably reflexive, and it’s not like Hanzo has many other places to put his hands, but it’s also very easy to believe it means more than that. Jesse wets his suddenly dry lips.

In the dim light, with Hanzo pressed close and Jesse’s mortifying erection guiding most of his thought processes, it’s also easy to imagine what he would feel like under Jesse’s hands, to wonder whether he’s sensitive, whether he’s interested in something rough. The intensity of the fantasy takes Jesse by surprise, as does the part where he pictures kissing Hanzo. His mouth really _is_ sort of perfectly shaped, but kissing isn’t a necessary prerequisite to the other things Jesse wants to do. That’s something else wiggling its way into his brain. 

Hanzo sucks in air, pushing against Jesse with the force of it. Then there’s a muffled thump against the door that makes Jesse jerk backward, rattling the shelf behind him. Hanzo looks away, and the moment is gone, leaving Jesse to wonder if it was all in his hormone-addled mind. 

The door slides open, and a wave of fresh air hits him. “I am so sorry,” Winston says. “Athena alerted us. We came as fast as we could.”

“Not an issue,” Jesse croaks. The cooler air and the presence of others is a better solution to his problem than anything Hanzo offered. “I appreciate it.”

“Yes, thank you,” Hanzo says, totally composed. He moves to the door first. Jesse has no idea if he’s doing it on purpose, but his body hides Jesse’s erection from their view. 

“I can finish the job,” Mei offers. “I’m sure you don’t want to be here any longer than you have to.”

Jesse nods, and he manages to get the clipboard situated just right until he’s sure the arousal has flagged enough for him to move. Hanzo is well ahead of him in the hall, taking rapid strides that Jesse’s tempted to think of as _scurrying._ Jesse can’t blame him for wanting to escape as fast as possible. 

He considers going after him, but in the end he settles for a quick message once he’s retrieved his comm: _Sorry again. I’d appreciate it if we could forget all about this._

The answer arrives almost instantly: _It never happened._

### 2

True to his word, Hanzo doesn’t bring it up. Apart from a more frequent evasion of eye contact, which Jesse might only be imagining, he doesn’t behave in any way that would suggest he was recently locked in a closet with his teammate’s boner. Their agreement to never speak of it does not mean Jesse has forgotten, though. 

It could have happened with anyone. Probably. Maybe not with Winston. But proximity, a generally attractive person, a wandering mind — these things happen. It’s not about Hanzo. 

This theory strains when he catches Hanzo smiling and laughing with Mei, looser than Jesse’s ever seen him. Hanzo’s smile is wide and bright, freer than anyone might have predicted. It fades quickly, but in the moments after its appearance, Hanzo looks younger, unburdened by the years or the violence or the sleepless nights.

The theory cracks under the pressure of sighting Hanzo in the gym. He’s a well-oiled machine, muscles stretching and bunching as he works. He barely breaks a sweat, but the exertion makes him flush, the color spreading in a manner that reminds Jesse of sex. He wonders if that’s how Hanzo looks, that stubborn lock of hair clinging to his cheek, the flush creeping down his chest, muscles rippling as he moves. Hanzo grunts with his current efforts, and Jesse has to escape before he embarrasses himself again.

The theory finally shatters when they get caught in a thunderstorm. 

Jesse can barely hear over the sound of the rain, his comm crackling with static. He can’t see more than a foot in front of his face either. 

_“Can’t fly in this,”_ Lena says in his ear. 

_“Take shelter,”_ Winston orders. _“We’ll figure it out.”_

Most of the buildings in this part of town have been abandoned, the doors and windows boarded over, and Jesse can barely see past the end of his own nose to find one that isn’t. A sheet of water falls from his hat, which is barely holding up under the onslaught. He takes one waterlogged step after another until he spots the empty cafe. This place is closed up like the others, but it has an awning that’s doing its best to fight back against the rain.

Jesse ducks under it with a sigh, a literal weight off his shoulders now that the rain isn’t bearing down on him. The relief doesn’t last long. He isn’t alone. 

Hanzo sits in the cafe doorway, drenched from head to toe. Jesse feels like something that’s been drowned and dragged through the mud, and somehow Hanzo’s in the same storm looking like someone sprayed him down and artfully tousled him for a photo shoot. The shirt he’s wearing clings to his collar bones, to his shoulders, molding to every bit of muscle he has, somehow deepening the groove between his pecs, sharpening the definition of his arms. His nipples are hard and tight beneath the fabric. It’s somehow obscene in a way it wouldn’t be if he were shirtless. 

There’s not a lot of room to maneuver, but Jesse figures maybe standing in such close quarters with his crotch at eye level is not his best option. Not after the last time, and not with Hanzo looking like that. 

“Move over,” Jesse says roughly. Hanzo budges to the side, and Jesse squeezes into the doorway with him, squashed uncomfortably between Hanzo on one side and cold brick on the other. 

He leans forward, tips his head toward his knees until the water stuck on the brim of his hat splashes to the ground. When he leans back again, he catches Hanzo out of the corner of his eye, looking like he’s fighting a laugh. 

“Somethin’ funny to you?”

“Surely there were other ways to do that.” It’s hard to read his tone with the rain pounding on the awning above, but he doesn’t _look_ like he’s being a dick. He looks almost like he does when he’s with Mei, loose and smiling.

“It was efficient.” Jesse shrugs off the effects of that smile, then he pulls the brim lower and tries to ignore the cold and the wet and his present company. The cold is easy enough; his serape might be soaked, but it’s still a thick wool. The wet isn’t going away any time soon, but it’s at least better now that he’s not in it. His company is the hardest to shut out.

Jesse pictures them trying to get out of this doorway and unable to escape, stuck permanently hip to hip. Hanzo keeps shifting his weight, jostling Jesse’s body every time he does. He thinks at first that Hanzo’s only restless. Then he glances at where Hanzo’s holding his bow, propped between his knees. His hands are clenching around it, and there are goosebumps all the way up both arms. Hanzo isn’t squirming — he’s shivering and trying to hide it.

Jesse could leave him to it. Hanzo’s personal comfort is none of his business. But the shivering goes on, and he can’t stop looking at the pebbled skin of Hanzo’s arm, and the guilt starts to nag him.

“Cold?” he asks, even though he already knows. Hanzo glances at him sideways like he too thinks it’s a stupid question. He doesn’t deign to answer. Normally Jesse would find it annoying, one more instance of Hanzo’s stubborn arrogance getting in his own way. Somehow it’s only funny this time. “I’m sure you’re doin’ just fine on your own, but this thing’s big enough for two, if you change your mind.” He flaps one end of the serape where Hanzo can see it, then he leans back, counting the seconds to see how long Hanzo holds out.

He’s at forty-two-Mississippi when Hanzo finally caves. “I suppose it is pointless to freeze when I could…” He pauses, struggling.

“Not-freeze?” Jesse offers. “Cuddle?”

“Please don’t call it that. It’s tactical.” 

“Tactical cuddling.”

Hanzo sighs loudly enough that Jesse hears it past the rain. “Fine. That. I would appreciate it.”

Jesse ducks his head, hiding his laugh in the process of unwrapping the serape. Once he’s untangled himself, he hands one end to Hanzo and lets him figure out the rest. There’s some tugging while they work out how to share it, then Hanzo squeezes in beside him, a heavy, reassuring weight against his shoulder. 

He glances sideways to find Hanzo looking back. “Thank you,” Hanzo says. There’s still water beaded in his eyelashes, clumping them together. They’re already black, but the rain somehow intensifies them anyway. It’s unfair how good he looks, with the slight sheen on his damp skin, and his big dark eyes, and his stupid, perfect mouth only inches away.

“No problem.” It’s only a tiny lie. The weight of Hanzo looking at him _is_ something of a problem, but it’s not one he has the language to address. Jesse looks away again, staring instead at the waterfall coming down a few feet away.

“Could we… keep this between us?” Hanzo asks, close enough to his ear that Jesse feels warm breath wash over his neck.

It loosens something that was coiling up tightly in his chest. He didn’t want to be the one to ask. He’s not ashamed of the cuddling, but something here makes him want to keep it to himself. It’s not for anyone else. 

“Sure thing. It never happened,” Jesse says with a smile he could not possibly explain.

### 3

 _It never happened_ is easy enough to promise, but Jesse has a hard time fulfilling it. Not that he tells anyone else. That’s fine. It’s what he prefers too. 

The problem is that he can’t tell his libido the same thing. As far as his idiot boner is concerned, it very definitely happened, and the image of Hanzo with his shirt plastered to his obnoxiously sculpted body is now etched into Jesse’s hindbrain for all eternity. Plenty of things that truly didn’t happen haunt him too: images of Hanzo’s slick skin, how it might feel to touch, what might have happened if Jesse had stayed standing over him, what Hanzo might have done if Jesse had only turned his head and kissed him. 

Even the stupid goosebumps get their air time; he imagines pushing the hem of Hanzo’s wet shirt up, mouthing his way up slippery skin, goosebumps cropping up along his sides…

The point is, Jesse can’t stop thinking about it. He can’t stop remembering that time in the supply closet either, returning over and over and _over_ to Hanzo’s offer to “help.” It’s distracting as hell. Worse, that higher power that Jesse’s so unsure about seems to enjoy fucking with him. Things that “never happened” _keep_ happening. 

There’s the supply run:

Jesse’s more than fine taking the backseat until Hanzo squeezes in beside him. The giant box of groceries for twelve takes up the rest of the space and forces him closer than he might otherwise want to be. Hanzo seems to do his best to lean his weight away from Jesse, but the way back up the rock is full of twists and turns, and eventually he has to balance himself with a hand on Jesse’s thigh. One sharp curve, and it slides between Jesse’s legs. Jesse hisses through his teeth as his knees try to spread automatically. Then his spine snaps straight, and his eyes bore holes into the back of Lena’s head because he refuses to let _this_ happen again, especially with witnesses. 

“Sorry,” Hanzo murmurs under his breath as he rights himself. It’s the first time Jesse’s ever seen him flustered. His blush is bright enough that it probably matches Jesse’s own.

“Never happened,” Jesse assures him.

There’s the time in the elevator:

The whole thing lurches to a stop and Jesse loses his footing, stumbling directly into Hanzo. Hanzo steadies them both, then another lurch sends them both into the wall. Jesse manages to keep from crushing him, but his knee slips between Hanzo’s thighs and he barely catches himself with a palm beside Hanzo’s head. 

There’s nothing but static between Jesse’s ears. The lights in the elevator flicker and dim, then they’re in the dark. Neither of them moves. Their noses are all but touching, and Jesse can feel Hanzo’s chest moving with his every breath, and he doesn’t think he’s imagining the hot twitch of something against his thigh. 

“Hanzo,” he breathes, unsure what else there is to say. For a moment there’s nothing else in the world but the warmth of Hanzo’s body and the sound of their shared breathing. He swears the hand at his waist tightens to pull him closer, swears Hanzo’s chin tips up, challenging, mouth inching ever closer. 

Then the lights flicker on, and the cart begins to move again. Hanzo turns his face away, clearing his throat, and Jesse carefully extricates himself. Neither of them says it this time, but he still knows the deal: it never happened. Easy enough, because nothing _did_ happen beyond Jesse’s momentary lapse in judgment.

Then there’s the mission, the one Vishkar interrupts:

These things are never allowed to go smoothly. Jesse’s on the ground alone, cut off from the rest of the team by a squad of well-armed enemy agents. He’s looking for a way out when Hanzo’s voice comes through the comm. _“The building west of you. Meet me on the roof.”_

Jesse doesn’t question it. He glances up to see Hanzo perched up there, then he bolts that way just as a handful of Vishkar security come through the alley. He hears shouting behind him as the first arrow flies, and he doesn’t look back. There’s an emergency staircase that leads to the roof, and he groans as he begins the climb, regretting every day he ever slacked off on cardio. He hits the third floor landing before he hears the clamor above him. His gun is back out, held at the ready, when Hanzo rounds the stairs. 

Jesse curses, but they don’t have time for distractions. “They’re on the roof now,” Hanzo says, angry and accusatory like it’s somehow Jesse’s fault. He doesn’t think it actually has much to do with him though.

“Come on,” Jesse says, pulling Hanzo through the door to the third floor. It’s an office floor, cubicle after gray cubicle stretching out before them like a maze. There are a thousand places to hide, but none of them are secure, none of them defensible. A single shot could pierce any one of those flimsy cubicle walls. 

This building isn’t that big. A well-trained team will sweep it quickly; they don’t have time to waste making a decision. Jesse’s mind is still racing, calculating their chances at every position, when Hanzo yanks him sideways and shuts the door behind them. Jesse chokes down a laugh. 

It’s another supply closet, this time filled to the brim with things like paper clips and post-it notes. There’s room enough in this one for Hanzo to turn though, an arrow held loosely between his fingers. His head is tilted, alert, and Jesse keeps Peacekeeper ready. 

It’s silent out there long enough that Jesse’s mind begins to take in the other details. Details like the way Hanzo smells when he’s been sweating, or the way the heavy rasp of his breathing sounds like it exists in an entirely different context, or the way his weight shifts so that he brushes backward into Jesse more than once. It is _not_ the time, but it’s harder than it has any right to be to convince the stupidest parts of his brain.

He doesn’t know _what_ possesses Hanzo that makes him glance back. He narrows his eyes at Jesse’s hot face, then his gaze flicks down. “Really? Now?” If there’s any consolation, it’s that Hanzo flushes too, and he sounds more surprised than scornful.

“It’s just nerves,” Jesse mutters, even as he stares at the thick line of Hanzo’s throat. 

Hanzo’s mouth twitches with amusement, and Jesse’s loath to admit it, but he’s sort of dying to know what Hanzo’s going to say next. Then Hanzo’s head turns back to the door, suddenly on high alert.

A light sweeps by the crack beneath the door, and Jesse bites down on a gasp. Hanzo’s holding his breath too, body tense and his bow creaking as he adjusts his grip. Heavy footsteps pass them by, and Jesse thinks, for one brief, giddy moment, that they’ll be in the clear soon.

Then there’s a hiss outside. A fog rises, seeping in from the bottom of the door. At first he thinks the enemy agents are only trying to smoke them out. Then the wave of dizziness hits. Jesse curses and shoves the serape over his nose, doing his best not to breathe it in. 

Hanzo’s not doing any better. He seizes, chest heaving on a cough he’s trying hard to silence, then he glances at Jesse, eyes wide. Jesse grips Peacekeeper tighter. “We gotta—” he starts, unsure what it is they have to do even as he tries to speak it. His tongue feels numb, and so do his fingers. 

Hanzo nods, although he already looks dazed. He turns fully toward the door, and his arm glows that funny blue light, and Jesse thinks this is it, this is how they get out. Then the light dims, and Hanzo stumbles, and Jesse has just enough brainpower left to grumble, “Well, shit.”


	2. Chapter 2

### 4

Jesse’s ass is numb from the metal bench. Otherwise he’s cold. They took his serape when they took his gun and body armor, which is just plain rude. 

Beyond the bars of their cell, there’s a single visible guard, but he’s not stupid enough to believe that’s all there is. He saw how well-outfitted this operation is; there are more of them somewhere, and he has no idea how many. There have been two shift changes so far. Jesse’s internal clock says they might be every half hour. There’s a hole in the floor whose purpose is made apparent by the funky urinal-cake aroma that wafts upward occasionally. Neither he nor Hanzo have had to make use of it so far. That’s a much needed bit of good news, as well as another clue that they can’t have been here that long.

He would say the holding cell is a glorified closet, but he’s spent enough time in closets lately that he knows better. It’s bigger than that, at least. Big enough that Hanzo can sit on the bench beside him and they only barely touch, as long as they both keep their elbows in check. 

They can’t even stand; they’re shackled to their shared seat. Jesse’s already tested the give on his bonds, and he knows Hanzo has too. More annoyingly, the one in the middle is one long chain, looped around the leg of the bench and linking them together, which means Jesse can feel the tug every time Hanzo tries to move his left arm. The bench leg whines in protest when they pull too hard at each other, each trying to take up the limited space for himself. 

It would be boring, if he weren’t so worried about why they’re being held. Hanzo seems to agree. They don’t speak much, but every now and then Hanzo will stretch his legs out in front of him or draw them in closer again. It’s the most interesting thing that’s happened since Jesse woke up in the cell. He would like to blame that on the boredom, but he’s coming to terms with the reality that Hanzo interests him in general.

“You figured out what they want yet?” Jesse eventually asks, if only to break the monotony.

“No.” Hanzo’s voice is hushed, and he won’t take his eyes off the guard. “Presumably they don’t want us dead.”

“Incredible. You ever thought of doing detective work?” Hanzo’s head turns slowly. It’s amazing, really, how much disdain a single look can communicate. “Sorry,” Jesse mumbles. “Somethin’ about being held prisoner’s making me grumpy.”

“And what is your excuse the rest of the time?”

Jesse opens his mouth, then he shuts it again. Hanzo looks smug about that, which is approximately one thousand times more annoying than anything he could say. Jesse decides his curiosity outweighs his stubborn pride, so he admits defeat on this one. Weighty silences are more Hanzo’s forte anyway. “What does that mean?”

Hanzo’s hands rise and fall back into his lap, exasperated. “You want to discuss this right now?”

“If you got some better way to kill time, I’m all ears.” He shouldn’t have said that. It summons a suggestion from the part of his brain that’s motivated solely by his dick’s obsession with Hanzo; if he shifts far enough to his right, there’s probably room for Hanzo to reach into his lap. 

“It means you are _regularly_ ‘grumpy’.” Hanzo’s voice breaks the thought into little pieces. Jesse’s almost grateful for the interruption, for the multi-layered distraction provided by the opportunity to banter.

“I’m a ray of goddamn sunshine, what are you on about?”

“You are an asshole.” Hanzo cuts a sideways look at him, then he gives a faint smile. “Most of the time, that is.” The self-conscious curl to that smile leaves Jesse disarmed. He wonders if Hanzo’s thinking about that time in the rain, or any of the other strange, secret moments among their growing collection of them. 

“Not always the nicest company yourself.” It’s not as convincing as he would like it to be. 

“Is that so?” He asks it like he’s amused, like Hanzo’s baiting him into some trap. He’s got a glint in his eye that wasn’t there a moment ago. Jesse regrets this entire conversation, especially once Hanzo confirms his fear about the direction it’s heading. “I was under the impression you might not mind my company.” He smirks. “Part of you, anyway.”

Jesse’s ears feel hot, but he hides his sputter well enough, he thinks. “What happened to ‘it never happened’?”

“You wanted to talk.” Hanzo’s expression is incomprehensible. “Am I wrong?”

“Fine. You’re right. Part of me finds you—” the chain rattles as Jesse gestures in a way that’s meant to encompass all of Hanzo’s _Hanzoness_ “—you know. The rest of me thinks _you’re_ an asshole.”

“I see,” Hanzo says, as he pulls the sort of face a person pulls when they’re annoyed and trying not to show it. 

“What, you mad fishin’ for compliments didn’t get you anywhere?” He’s teasing, but there’s a bite to it from wondering if Hanzo really _was_ using Jesse’s attraction as simple ego fuel. 

“No. Forget I asked.”

Being told to forget it naturally makes it impossible to forget. Jesse scowls ahead at the lone guard, chewing on that scrap of a conversation. “Why bring it up at all, then?” he pushes. 

Hanzo sighs. “I don’t know. Curiosity?”

“You get what you were lookin’ for?”

In lieu of a real answer, Hanzo rounds on him with a stare that feels like he’s trying to decide where to cut first. It makes Jesse square up defensively, ready to retaliate, and it also sends a perverse shot of heat through his gut. But Hanzo doesn’t move any closer. He doesn’t do anything but _look,_ eyes tracing over Jesse’s face and down his throat, along the lines of his body. The intensity gives the distinct impression that he can see through Jesse’s clothing. When that gaze drops to his lap, Jesse’s dick takes interest. 

He wonders if something has broken inside him. If the several times they’ve been in close quarters together have created some Pavlovian response, and now he’s forever cursed to get hard from nothing more than sharing space with Hanzo. It’s fucking embarrassing. 

Hanzo’s eyes rise back to his face. He’s smirking now, but there’s something wry and dark about it. “I got _an_ answer.” 

“Happy to oblige, I guess,” Jesse says in a tone that he hopes conveys how very unhappy he is. 

Hanzo leaves him alone after that, settling back against the cold wall to stare ahead at the guard again. Something about his posture seems sullen, but that’s probably the way the shackles keep his wrists close at his sides; Jesse can feel his own shoulders slouched more than he means to, body tricked into believing the weight on his wrists can drag all of him down. 

Fortunately their circumstances prevent his usual Hanzo-inspired erection from fully forming or persisting much longer. It is one of few silver linings to what is otherwise a dreary experience. He’s cold, he’s tired, he’s sore, and now hunger is beginning to gnaw at him. 

Eventually a man comes to stand in front of the cell, and Jesse just knows he’s about to get one of those gloating villain monologues. “Well, well, would you look at that. What do you think your friends would offer to get the two of you back?” At least that answers that. Neither he nor Hanzo bother to answer the question. “And what do you think Talon would pay to obtain two Overwatch agents?”

“Overwatch is dead,” Jesse mumbles automatically. It’s instinct at this point, however unconvincing it might be. 

“Nobody believes that anymore.” The man paces back and forth in front of the bars. “Of course, we could also turn you in for your respective bounties. Ooh, or find out why _you—”_ he points at Hanzo “—were glowing when we picked you up. I’m sure our scientists would love that. So many possibilities!”

Hanzo remains silent, eyes on some fixed point far away. Jesse grunts. “Can’t do much with us if we starve to death first.” He senses Hanzo grow tense beside him, less a movement than a change in the air.

The man squints at him. “I’m sure you can wait.”

Jesse sighs. “You’re limitin’ your options if you let us starve. Talon would want us alive, I’m sure, maybe even in good health, depending on their plans. And our friends won’t take kindly to it; they’re more likely to retaliate if they think you made us suffer.” 

The man appears unmoved until Hanzo says, “Surely it costs less to feed us than it would to replace the resources you will lose if you anger _either_ organization.”

Apparently the money talk is more persuasive. He makes an irritated face, but he wanders off, presumably in search of something for them to eat. Jesse glances at Hanzo, who sends a furtive glance right back. There’s no way to discuss anything now that the guard has moved closer; he simply has to trust that Hanzo’s thinking along the same lines he is. Hanzo’s mouth has the faintest curve to it, the only hint that they might be on the same page.

The man returns with another guard and two microwave dinners that Jesse suspects were taken out of someone’s personal food stash. Maybe the one with him, if the guy’s unhappy expression is anything to go by. That guard squeezes into the cell with them. It’s too tight to close the door behind him, but he places the hot plastic dishes on their laps. 

“How am I supposed to eat?” Jesse asks, rattling his chains. He pulls harder on the right than the left, jerking Hanzo’s wrist toward him and making the bench creak again. The guard hesitates. Hanzo also makes an aborted effort to move his hands, and the man in charge gives the order. Jesse gets his left hand unshackled. They watch him for a moment, so he picks up the plastic fork and shovels some mystery meat drowning in equally mysterious gravy into his mouth. It’s not good, but he’s hungry enough that it doesn’t matter. He shares a glance at Hanzo as the guard leans over him. Hanzo isn’t looking at him, and Jesse can only hope he knows what to do. 

The guard unclasps Hanzo’s wrist. 

Jesse surges his weight forward, and Hanzo does the same, just like he’s supposed to. The bench leg comes clean off, twisted upward by the pressure from their shared chain. Hanzo snatches it before it can go flying. He lashes out, and the guard’s neck snaps violently to the side, painting the wall with a spray of blood. A couple teeth bounce wildly off the cell wall.

Jesse shouts in surprise, because he’s done all manner of bloody violence, but he can’t handle the tooth thing, especially not when they tinkle delicately as they skitter along the tile. That sound’s going to be in his nightmares tonight, he just knows it. 

He recovers fast enough to shove the cell door open before the others can think to lock them back in. It’s awkward, working one-handed, but he lands a solid hook on the man in charge. He also manages not to see if any more teeth end up in places they shouldn’t. 

They make quick work of their captors, then Hanzo yanks him back toward the cell. Jesse starts to protest, but then he’s drawn to an awkward bend while Hanzo squats over the first guard’s body, patting him down. He’s looking for the keys. 

“They can’t have gone far,” Jesse says, but there’s no jingle, nothing flashy, just a groaning guard covered in TV dinner and his own blood. Jesse gets jerked all the way to the floor as Hanzo scrambles, feeling along the tile. Jesse joins him, but there’s nothing. 

“Where could they—” Hanzo stops suddenly. He goes pale as he stares at the hole in the floor, the one Jesse was pretty sure was meant to function as their toilet. 

“Nope,” is the only thing Jesse can think to say.

“Nope,” Hanzo echoes.

Despite their agreement on the subject, they both contemplate the abyss for a few more seconds before they rise to their feet, resigned. They have to retrieve their things and get out of this place. There’s no reason anyone else has to know they _chose_ not to take the keys. Maybe there’s another set somewhere, anyway.

### 5

There is not another set of keys. 

The part of Jesse’s brain that isn’t focused on figuring out their next step is alarmed by how well he and Hanzo work together. It’s not just the way they handled the bench, but the way they move through the facility together. 

Jesse snatches one guard by the back of his neck so that Hanzo has an easy target to punch. Hanzo bats the gun out of another’s hand to give Jesse more time to aim, now that he’s stuck with his off-hand. Together, they use the chain to clothesline someone, dropping him onto his back almost effortlessly.

They don’t have to speak to do any of it, functioning instead on a mostly-silent consensus. If Jesse didn’t know better, he would think he and Hanzo have worked together for _years,_ practically reading each other’s minds like that. They manage to gather their things, shoot and/or bludgeon several Vishkar guards on the way out, and make it halfway across the city without much to slow them down. It’s once they get somewhere safe that things get difficult again.

Jesse’s on lockpick number four and the cuff at his wrist hasn’t budged. Hanzo’s doing the same on his end, with just as much luck. When that fails, Hanzo attempts to use one of his arrowheads to wedge a link open, before he resorts to frustrated sawing. 

“How’s that workin’ out?”

“It isn’t.” Hanzo sighs and tosses the arrow aside. 

“Let me try somethin’.” 

Jesse gathers up the chain in his prosthetic hand, and he squeezes. The metal groans and shifts, but there’s no crushing it. The hand is strong, but it isn’t _that_ strong. He feels around, attempting to twist where the links meet the cuff, but there’s not much he can do. 

With the full knowledge of how futile the effort likely is, they attempt to simply pull the chain apart. They’re both strong, and surely it has some weak points. They strain against it, and Jesse can feel his boots sliding on cheap carpet, no traction to be found. It has to look like the world’s stupidest game of tug-of-war. 

With Hanzo counterweighting it, he tries again to use the prosthetic, yanking hard on Hanzo’s cuff. Hanzo stumbles his way, then jerks back from Jesse’s attempt to catch him. He looks deeply offended, although it’s not clear whether it’s about Jesse unbalancing him or trying to right him again after.

Hanzo sits on the floor, and McCree steps one booted foot down onto the chain, pulling as hard as he can on his own wrist. All he does is manage to upset his own balance. He lands on his ass with a solid thump. His wrist is raw, aching from the pressure he’s put on it. One glance shows that Hanzo’s is too, a vivid, angry red and the dark purple beginnings of some bruising just before the tattoo begins. It’s probably not worth all that. 

“I’m fresh out of ideas,” Jesse admits.

“I would be happy to break your thumb for you,” Hanzo suggests.

“I appreciate that, but no, thanks.” 

“Let me know if you change your mind.”

“Wait. Why not break _your_ thumb?” 

Hanzo looks at him like he’s lost his mind. “Why would I do that?”

Jesse stares, and he’s almost grateful that he does, because it’s long enough that Hanzo breaks character. He does so with a smile that, on any other person at any other time, would signal the kind of mischief that ends with both of you naked and covered in condiments. But it’s Hanzo, which leads to two results: one, Jesse concluding that it probably doesn’t mean what it would mean on somebody else, and two, his dick reacting like that’s exactly what it means.

Jesse springs to his feet fast enough that his knees pop, figuring he could use a distraction. Besides, he should get this part over with before it gets any worse. “Got some bad news for you: I gotta pee.” Hanzo takes a fortifying breath, but he nods. “That’s it? No smartass remarks?”

“I suppose I am grateful. It could be worse.”

Jesse snorts. “You’re thinkin’ about that poop chute again, aren’t you?”

“Don’t call it that.” Hanzo wears the look of a man who’s seen too much. “But yes. It was… haunting.”

The bathroom is too small for the two of them together, which is a recurring theme lately. Every room with Hanzo is too small, if he’s being honest with himself, but this one may be objectively tiny.

Jesse gets himself unzipped, then he considers his metal hand. “I’m, uh. Right-handed.” Hanzo is politely looking ahead, gaze locked on his reflection in the mirror, but Jesse sees him pull a face. Then his hand inches closer to Jesse, giving him enough slack to work with. 

He stands, dick in warm, fleshy hand, trying desperately not to think about Hanzo standing next to him, wrist hanging weirdly close while the rest of him is as far away as possible, while he’s got his pants undone. Nothing happens. After a moment, he looks at Hanzo. “Could you… turn away or something?” In the face of Hanzo’s silence, he grumbles, “Performance anxiety.”

“The things I learn when I am with you,” Hanzo says dryly. He turns away, one arm angled awkwardly behind the rest of his body. After a moment, he asks, “Do you need a distraction?”

Jesse takes several breaths, trying to make himself relax. “Sure. Tell me the truth, did you actually think about reaching into that hole?” 

Hanzo snorts. “No.”

“Not even for a second?”

“Not even for one second did I consider putting my hand in the poop chute.”

It startles a laugh out of him, which is all his body needs to finally get with the program and let him take a piss. When he’s done, he has to climb into the shower stall to let Hanzo have his turn. Jesse stares at the showerhead and attempts to think of anything but the fact that he is once again alone in a tiny space with Hanzo, who has his dick out this time. 

Washing up is a mess of elbows, but they manage to find a rhythm to moving about after that. While they wait for dinner to be delivered, Hanzo tries to summon the dragons for their aid, but all it does is shock Jesse through the chain. Jesse considers shooting it, but it’s probably not worth the risk of the bullet or shrapnel coming back to take one of their eyes out. 

They make it through dinner with minimal fuss and minimal speaking. Jesse finds a way to entertain himself by insisting he use his right hand to brush his teeth. He watches Hanzo dodge his elbow in the mirror, and he pretends all the jostling is accidental. 

They can’t change out of their clothes, so at least he avoids that potential minefield. The bed, however, is its own terrifying prospect. “You sleep on your back, or what?” Jesse asks. Hanzo stares at the bed, brow crunched down over his nose. “Didn’t realize that was a hard question.”

Hanzo’s face clouds with distress. He’s more guarded now, which is how Jesse realizes, belatedly, that he has spent most of the day _un_ guarded. “I am a restless sleeper,” he says slowly. 

“Oh.” This would be a prime opportunity to crack a joke, or maybe point out that the things Hanzo’s done might mean he deserves some sleepless nights. Instead, Jesse says, “Me too.”

Hanzo shoots him a look that might be interpreted as grateful on someone else’s face. Then he squares his shoulders. “Back, then.” 

Together they move to the bed, which Hanzo seems unfazed by, but which makes Jesse’s pulse riot in his ears. He sets a cup of water on the nightstand and yanks a pillow from the bed as Hanzo climbs in. 

“What are you doing?”

“Takin’ the floor?” 

“That’s absurd.” 

Jesse thinks he should protest. In fact, the sharp zip of electric heat through his body is a strong argument in favor of sleeping on the floor. He’s been weird enough around Hanzo without giving his dick _ideas_ to play with. Then again, Hanzo is sitting on that bed, which is a strong argument in favor of doing whatever he wants. 

Jesse weighs the options and figures a night of blue balls is better than what the floor’s going to do to his spine. Resigned, he eases his way onto the bed and drops onto his back, awkwardly shoving the pillow behind his head. He can’t quite fluff it the way he likes; he’s used to doing more one-handed than the average person, but it’s the wrong hand, and it feels like starting from scratch once more.

“What are you…” Hanzo starts. “Would you like help?”

“I’m good,” Jesse says. The last thing he needs is Hanzo being nice to him right now, but maybe it was harsher than intended. “Thanks, though,” he adds, just in case.

He is aware of Hanzo lying stiffly beside him, despite that he’s making a real effort not to look or touch. It’s like Hanzo’s tension is radiating off of him — or like Jesse’s projecting all his own nerves. It’s stupid. He’s shared a bed with teammates before. He had to share a single sleeping bag with Reyes once, because it was that fucking cold. At no point was he this concerned by it. You do what you have to do sometimes, and it’s no big deal. 

But he is hyper-aware of Hanzo in a way he shouldn’t be. Sleep will be a long time coming. 

There’s a stain on the ceiling. Water damage slowly creeping outward from the edge of the wall. It’s almost shaped like a sailboat, if he squints. A car horn bleats in the distance. The strip of light beneath the window begins to feel too bright. 

The mattress moves and the chain between them jingles softly, slithering along the sheet as Hanzo shifts his weight. Jesse tries to sink into the mattress, like he can will himself deeper, make his limbs heavier, but when that doesn’t work, he rolls onto his side to find that Hanzo has done the same. 

Hanzo’s eyes are closed in that way that says he’s _trying_ but isn’t actually asleep. Still, they’re shut, which is what matters in the moment. It gives Jesse a long, uninterrupted opportunity to stare at his face. 

In the colorless darkness, his features lose some of their severity. His cheekbones still manage to stand out even when the dark flattens everything else. His lips are closed but only barely, the bottom poking out in the slightest pout. 

It’s only a few inches. Jesse could bridge that gap in no time, fit their mouths together. In the surreality of their circumstances and the quietness of the night, it feels like it might be possible. He wonders how Hanzo kisses — if it’s as intense as the rest of him, or if it’s soft and indulgent. Would he let Jesse take the lead, or would he take over right away?

He doesn’t know how long he stares before Hanzo’s eyes open to catch him at it. He looks immediately irritated, and all Jesse’s thoughts of kissing him dissipate just like that. There’s no pretending he wasn’t staring either; Hanzo caught him out and is too smart to buy an excuse. 

“Sorry,” Jesse mumbles. “Can’t sleep.”

“I can _feel_ you staring.” 

“Nothin’ else to look at. The ceiling got old fast.”

Hanzo makes a thoughtful sound. “I see. Here I thought you might be trying to decide which part wins out.”

“Which… part?” 

“Do you not pay attention to the things that come out of your mouth?” 

“It’s been a long damn day, and I...” He trails off as Hanzo pushes up, weight balanced on his hand, and reaches across Jesse, who rolls instinctively onto his back. Hanzo is giving off so much heat, and his chest passes too close, his face not much farther away. He grabs the cup off the nightstand. “That’s my water,” Jesse protests weakly. 

“Not anymore.” 

He watches, transfixed, as half the glass disappears. In the dark he can just make out the way Hanzo’s throat moves when he swallows. Jesse’s dick takes notice. He would say it’s the stupidest thing he’s gotten hard over, but that would require him to ignore several other times with Hanzo. He wants to lean up and run his tongue along Hanzo’s outstretched neck, maybe catch a little skin between his teeth, leave his mark below the ear. 

The moment passes when Hanzo sets the empty cup back down, and all Jesse can think to say is, “You’re so mean.”

It’s a mistake. It makes Hanzo pause instead of back away; he hovers over Jesse, and the bare scraps of light seem designed to draw all his attention to Hanzo’s mouth. “Am I?” he asks with a smirk. 

“You know you are.”

“What have I done that’s _mean?”_

“Okay, well, you’re mockin’ me right now.” Hanzo huffs out a laugh. “Called me an asshole earlier.”

“Obviously intended to be teasing, but factual nonetheless.” Jesse lets out an offended grunt, but he realizes he can’t argue. He remembers Hanzo’s smile as he said it. “Should I apologize?” He sounds sincere about it. It makes Jesse’s head spin. 

“No, that’s… It’s fine, I guess.” For a moment, Jesse wonders if Hanzo’s been _flirting_ with him — by calling him names and offering to cut off his thumb. It’s a stupid thought, but now that he’s had it, Jesse can’t shake it. “Wouldn’t kill you to be nice, though.”

“I can be nice.”

“Talk is cheap, Shimada. I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Hanzo pauses with the barest tilt of his head. There’s no sound but shaky breathing. Then there’s a careful brush of fingers, one of Hanzo’s knuckles tracing the shape of Jesse’s cheek. It’s so soft it almost tickles, and Jesse wants to squirm for more reasons than that. 

“What are you doin’?”

Hanzo pauses with their noses nearly brushing. He’s so close that he’s blocking out all the light, close enough that Jesse feels the puff of air against his mouth when Hanzo says, “Being nice.”

His lips brush carefully against Jesse’s, still cool from the water. Jesse hisses in a stuttering breath, and Hanzo moves in on that, taking advantage of the way Jesse’s lips part. It’s soft but insistent, and the slip of Hanzo’s tongue feels inevitable. 

It shouldn’t be possible, but Jesse breaks the kiss with a quiet grunt, throat constricting until it feels like it’s squeezing all the blood from his racing heart. Even he is surprised by his own cynical laugh. “What, like you’re doin’ me a favor?”

“Did I say that?”

“Seemed like a real possibility.”

“You tell me to be nicer, but you are suspicious of affection. Wriggling like a worm on a hook at the slightest hint of it.” For a moment, it looks like Hanzo is going to kiss him again, his eyes heavy on Jesse’s face, then his mouth twists darkly. “If I have misread the situation, say so.” 

Jesse stares at what he suspects is outright impatience written across Hanzo’s face. “Caught me by surprise is all. You did threaten to break my thumb.”

Hanzo ducks his head, face hidden. He might be laughing. When he recovers, he says, “And you called me an asshole, and I think you meant it, yet here you are, concerned that _my_ attraction is insincere.” 

“So you _are_ into me.”

“Infuriatingly so, and despite all your efforts to the contrary.” 

“See? That’s not a nice thing to say.” Hanzo stares flatly, and Jesse stares right back, uncertain how to proceed. It occurs to him that he didn’t give Hanzo a real answer, which is probably pretty nerve-wracking. So he smiles when he says, “I think you need more practice being nice.”

“You’re the one who interrupted my last practice.” He sounds exasperated, but he’s still leaning in to capture Jesse’s mouth again. 

Whatever his voice might have threatened, this kiss is as soft as the first, slow like Jesse needs coaxing. He doesn’t, not this time, but he also doesn’t mind the syrupy indulgence of it, the way Hanzo deepens it by increments until Jesse’s drowning in it, holding on for dear life. He loses himself to the slick slide of tongues and the rasp of their beards and the hint of Hanzo’s calluses where his thumbs brush the hinges of Jesse’s jaw. 

The bitch of it is that Hanzo was right: it does make him squirm. He’s grown used to the part where his dick probably likes Hanzo too much, used to the thrill and the embarrassment and the pleasant pressure between his legs, but this is different. This is his heart fluttering in his chest like a bird trapped in a cage. Something about Hanzo being nice doesn’t feel so nice at all.

It’s too much, suddenly, but as soon as he thinks it, Hanzo’s hand creeps beneath his shirt. His weight shifts until their legs have tangled together, and he answers Jesse’s efforts to steer their kissing by pulling away slightly each time, until he has Jesse chasing his mouth, craning his neck to reach him before surrendering again to Hanzo’s control. 

Hanzo leads and Jesse follows, too overwhelmed for anything more, because the last way he expected this day to end was with Hanzo slowly devouring him. But here he is, wings beating fruitlessly in his chest, letting Hanzo do anything he wants and answering only by trying to chase down more of it, drunk off the languid drag of Hanzo’s tongue and the soft press of his lips. 

It’s all too much — too soft, too sweet, too many signals that Hanzo wants more than a quick roll in the hay. Too much risk if Jesse’s wrong about that last part. 

Eventually Hanzo’s teasing pulls him back too far, and Jesse seizes his chance, surging upward until he’s upended them both. Hanzo lands on his back, and Jesse swarms over him, channeling all the energy that’s been trapped in his chest into a very different sort of kiss. Hanzo makes a surprised sound, the chain jangling between them as he tugs hard on Jesse’s hair. 

The harsher edge of it is easier to bear than that slow, swampy thing from before. This is frenetic, teeth scraping Hanzo’s jaw and hips rolling into his; Jesse’s finally able to succumb to the urge to simply rut against him, cock sliding hot and rough along the inescapable proof of Hanzo’s attraction. 

There’s a moment where he thinks that’s all he should do, but they have to wear these clothes until pickup. It takes some coordination between them, shoving shirts up and pants down, the chain clanking rhythmically as Jesse works a hand between them. It’s quick after that, both of them writhing against each other, kisses growing messier where they happen at all between the sharp, shared breaths. 

When it’s over, Jesse waits and waits for the moment Hanzo insists this never happened either, but that moment never comes. 

### +1

Overwatch rescues them, and Torbjörn finds the right tools to unshackle them, and all returns to normal except that sometimes, late at night, Jesse sneaks down the hall into Hanzo’s room or sometimes the other way around. Sleeping together turns into breakfast together turns into whole days, sometimes, or long walks other times, or flirting, usually very badly, right out in the open. He learns Hanzo’s rhythms and quirks and how to accept that he’s not so afraid of some tenderness from time to time.

It also turns into this: Jesse, sitting on the end of his bed, with Hanzo staring back at him, distressingly attractive even when he looks confused. 

“What is this?” Hanzo asks.

“What does it look like?” Jesse laughs. “It’s a keyring.”

“I can see this, but…” The keys jingle as Hanzo gestures, plainly at a loss.

Jesse can’t stop his grin. “Well. These three are to some of the storage closets around here, y’know, for old times’ sake.” 

“Do I want to know how you got these?”

“Probably not. Then this little one, that’s for the handcuffs I bought.”

Hanzo snorts. “And here I thought this was going to be sweet.”

“Don’t be an ass. I’m doin’ something here!” Hanzo looks like he might protest, but he shakes his head instead, a fond smile ushering away any possible annoyance. “Alright. So this one—” Jesse reaches out to touch the next. It’s the second smallest. “That’s for an old safe deposit box back in Santa Fe. If anything ever happens to me, I want you to have that.”

“What’s in it?”

“Nothin’ crazy valuable. But it is _mine,_ and I want it to be yours.” He clears his throat. “And then, uh, that one.” He pokes the last, wiggling it on the ring with the tip of his finger. “There’s a bigger room at the end of this wing. Big enough for two, if you want. Don’t have to keep tip-toein’ across the hall.”

He waits for it to sink in. When it does, Hanzo goes a little red, but he doesn’t seem displeased at the prospect. Then something dawns on him. “All the rooms here use keypads.”

“Okay, so it’s _symbolic._ Not really much of movin’ in together, either, if it’s just down the hall! But I wanted… I want that. If you do. And, uh, keys let you out as easily as in, if you’d rather have that. I don’t ever want it to feel like you’re trapped.” 

Hanzo stares at him, a slow smile creeping over his face. Then he tosses the whole keyring to the side, jingling as they hit the floor. “I don’t want out. You are stuck with me.”

He kisses Jesse hard, grinning into his mouth, and it’s really sweet, except, well, “Two of those _are_ for real things, you know.”

“Right! Right,” Hanzo says as he scrambles away to retrieve them. “Sorry. Where were we?”

“I think you were gonna kiss me some more.” 

Hanzo does exactly that, and it doesn’t take long for Jesse’s dick to get involved, which is thankfully a welcome occurrence these days. He’s long since accepted that it might, in fact, be the smartest part of him, considering it figured out what he wanted before the rest of him did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part of the sharing-a-bed scene comes from [this Twitter convo with CommonNonsense](https://twitter.com/NonsenseCommon/status/1317679420073652224?s=20)!


End file.
